This series is basically a place for me to expose myself to poetry and practice analysis and appreciation (not as a literature student of course, just for me to enjoy poems and be more sensitive to beautiful things). Of course literature is not for everyone so feel free to skip this, but if you’re up for a compilation of beautiful things, why not give these poems a read?
Full Moon and Little Frieda -Ted Hughes
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket –
And you listening.
A spider’s web, tense for the dew’s touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming – mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Simplification of images: the pail of water (boi I love that last line!) plus the rhyme creates symmetry like a reflection?
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath –
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
‘Moon!’ you cry suddenly, ‘Moon! Moon!’
Deconstruction of a cow’s body, less about the physical presence and instead describing it through peripheral presence like a breath or the fluids in their body. Also the way the cow is used a vessel feels like a microscopic zoom in, narrowing field of vision, and contrast that with the sudden direction back to the moon (with the use of sound/speech that is also a peripheral sense), the moon and sky is of a larger scale and whoosh it’s like camera angle pulling back and catches your breath when the line of sight changes suddenly.
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.
The investment that builds towards the central image, such as the focus on the surrounding to contrast the abundance of detail in the environment and the simplicity of the reveal of the moon, lends itself to the immense feeling of wonder and smallness when viewing the moon as a child. Probably this feeling is something Hughes also felt reflecting off his daughter’s expression when she saw the full moon.
Examination at the Womb-Door -Ted Hughes
Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.
Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.
Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.
Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.
But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
Can we just take a moment to appreciate how rhythmic and dynamic this poem is?? It never repeats its meaning despite the obvious repetition of format and words, and the “call and answer” logic is held really tightly together. What is this level of genius??? This is just me straight up gushing rather than analyzing but it is amazing beyond what I can describe with my limited skill set.
Wind (my favourite lines) -Ted Hughes
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house
This image stuck with me. Having never living in a climate with such wind, the violence and movement in the environment shaped by strong wind makes me feel physically blown away and I have to lean against the pressure of the wind to compensate so that I do not fly away. That is powerful!
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